


я люблю тебя, Indeed

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Some angst, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 23:42:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5763418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re supposed to be KGB’s best but instead you disgraced Mother Russia, Kuryakin. Oleg’s a fool. He should have sent me instead of you because I would have gotten that disc and killed the American spy you now call your partner.”</p><p> </p><p>After a successful mission, a new threat arises and the boys will have to deal with the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	я люблю тебя, Indeed

Their mission had been successful. 

A small terrorist group consisting of former Nazis calling themselves ‘The Chamber’, had planned on releasing toxic cyanide fumes, similar to the ones used during the war in German extermination camps, to the unsuspecting public in Warsaw with the intent of striking terror and declaring a statement to the world that Nazis aren’t yet finished. UNCLE’s intel, together with the KGB’s, managed to intercept and foil the terrorist’s effort before the fumes could be released, and they were wrapping up their mission at their temporary base in the city when Alec Krycek, one of the KGB agents assigned to assist UNCLE in Warsaw, decides to confront Illya for his apparent failure to retrieve Dr. Teller’s disc back in Rome.

Holding Illya back after their debrief, Krycek taunts him, knows exactly how to mess with Illya’s mind.

“You’re supposed to be KGB’s best but instead you disgraced Mother Russia, Kuryakin. Oleg’s a fool. He should have sent me instead of you because I would have gotten that disc and killed the American spy you now call your partner.”

“You know nothing, and I do not wish to speak any more of this,” Illya hissed between gritted teeth.

His fingers have already started to shake, liquid anger slowly coursing through his veins at Krycek’s words. He is about to walk away from the spat when Krycek calls out to him, says something that makes Illya’s heart stop. 

“I would kill Solo if given a chance.”

Illya realises Krycek is perfectly capable of doing what he says. And when he sees Krycek’s eyes on Napoleon, who is busy talking to Waverly at that particular moment, oblivious to the danger he is in, Illya quickly grabs hold of Krycek’s collar. 

“I will kill you first before you get to him,” he threatens, venom dripping from his words. 

Krycek spits out in disgust. The idea of his former comrade choosing the American over him does not sit well with Krycek. He leans in close to Illya and then whispers in his ear. 

“I could still do it, Kuryakin. Let me do it. Let me kill him so I could spare the shame you’ve brought onto Russia.”

That was the final insult for Illya and the heated argument quickly spirals into a full-blown bloody fistfight, until Krycek had to be apprehended by several people, including Napoleon and Waverly, and then tied to a chair when his verbal threat to kill Napoleon came too frighteningly close for comfort. An ugly bruise, now forming on the American’s left cheek, is proof enough that Krycek could do a lot worse.

“I’m beginning to think Russians, in general, do not like me very much,” Napoleon says, winces when Illya’s fingers skim a little too hard on his injured cheek. 

Hearing that Illya gives Napoleon a glare. He has a split lip, a few cuts on his forehead and almost a broken nose all because of Napoleon, and there Napoleon was being all nonchalant despite the fact there is a very angry Russian with a murderous intent on him. Furious at his behaviour, he gives Napoleon a hard shake on the shoulders. 

“Do you always have to make everything a joke? That man wants to kill you, do you know that? Do you know how dangerous the situation is?”

Illya’s chest was heaving by the time he is done letting his thoughts known to his partner and this act from Illya simply rattles Napoleon. He wants to apologise for making light of the situation but before he could say anything to explain himself, Waverly is already ordering them to leave the area.

“Kuryakin, Solo, go wait outside the room. Let us handle Krycek in here,” he says in a firm voice.

Not wanting to argue with the Englishman, both agents give him an affirming nod and soon Waverly’s attention is once again on Krycek, who has managed to calm down somewhat after being subdued. 

Waverly kneels before the agent, tries to reason with the man who is still spotting an unhappy look. 

“You know, the KGB will not be happy to know I have one of their agents tied up to a chair like this even if I were to tell them you had threatened one of my agents,” Waverly says in a calm voice. “But I can’t keep you tied up for long, agent Krycek. So if I were to let you go, can you promise not to do anything stupid?”

There is a moment of contemplation from Krycek, before he nods and mutters, “I promise.”

Believing him enough, and having no other reason prolonging the entire situation, Waverly gives the thumbs up to his men to release the Russian, and they begin to rip away the tape that was binding Krycek to the chair.

Illya notices this as he is about to leave the room with Napoleon. 

He hears two loud rips, one after the other as the tape around Krycek’s wrists come away first. Not wanting to wait any further, Illya turns away, tugging at Napoleon’s arm in the process, and they are about to exit the door when suddenly he hears a loud shout and a cry behind him. There was a tremendous deafening crack, a brief flash of light and the whole room suddenly smells of burning. Illya feels something warm splash across his cheek and he jumps in shock, looking down at himself in bewilderment, for his shirt now is splattered with droplets of bright red blood. 

Stunned, he releases his grip on Napoleon’s arm, looks over at where Waverly and a few other men are now wrestling with Krycek in an attempt to regain possession of the gun in his hand in which he had managed to grab from one of the field agents, as fist upon fist strikes his face, as they try to subdue him for the second time.

“Peril…”

Upon seeing Illya’s blood-spattered shirt, Napoleon gasps. But when Illya lifts his eyes to Napoleon’s face, he realises the blood upon him is not even his own, for there is a rapidly spreading wet patch of bright red emblazoned upon Napoleon’s chest, and his partner sways there before him, his eyes blank with shock, his face already slack and grey.

  “Illya," Napoleon groans, breath hitching, as he clutched at himself in confusion, his hand coming away covered in blood, and he gazes at it in horror before crashing down onto his knees. 

“Illya…”  

“No, no, _no!_ ” Illya cries, his hands grasping Napoleon’s shirt sleeves in a desperate attempt to support him. “No, Cowboy, no...” 

  Wrapping an arm around Napoleon's shoulders now, Illya cradles and supports him as he sinks slowly backwards to the floor, anguish tearing him apart as he feels Napoleon’s head flopping loosely back against the crook of his own arm.   

“Oh God, no," he cries in frantic, in terror. “Napoleon, please…”

But Napoleon is fading fast, his eyes glazing over, the blood still seeping through his shirt.  

“Peril,” he chokes, spews blood, and then his eyelids flutter and close.

  For a few seconds, Illya is frozen, could do nothing but stare down at his partner in horror. 

“Cowboy?” he questions, his voice small, trembling. He gives him a little shake but Napoleon does not move. "Cowboy, talk to me, _please_?Cowboy?”  

When there is no reply, Illya cries out in anguish, the desperation in him apparent. "Napoleon, no! Don't you dare, Napoleon...you are not going to leave me like this. You can’t…please, you can’t! _Please?_ ”

  But Napoleon lies there completely motionless on the floor, his eyes firmly closed whilst the blood keeps on seeping and spreading through his shirt, through Illya’s hands.

  “Somebody, please, help!” he shouts when his frantic mind starts to work again.  

And as Illya presses his hand to Napoleon's wound in an attempt to stem the flow of blood, behind him Waverly begins to speak in shocked undertones into his phone, calling for medical assistance, hoping it is not too late to save the American agent.

 

***

 

Napoleon had been taken to a private local hospital, prepped straightaway for an emergency operation, and Illya was in the waiting room when Waverly broke the news to him. 

“Krycek has been detained, taken back to the KGB.”

“I should have killed him,” Illya mutters in response. Despite his obvious anger, his voice is broken, wavering. He leans his head down in his hands, unable to look Waverly in the eye.

“But I’m glad you had used your head instead of your heart, Kuryakin. No good would have come from you killing that man.”

Waverly then takes his seat beside Illya. As he gives him a glance, he tries to dispel that awful image of Napoleon bleeding in the Russian’s arms. He feels somewhat responsible for Napoleon’s condition and knows if he were to lose him, he would indefinitely lose Illya as well.

“How are you feeling?” he asks Illya who is looking tired, worried, heartbroken, and Waverly notes this, angry that he had been the reason for this, angry that he had put too much faith on Krycek. 

“Kuryakin? Are you all right,” he asks again and Illya snaps back at his superior.

“I’m fine.”

Waverly chooses to ignore Illya’s angry outburst. He puts a comforting hand on his shoulder instead.

“The doctors say Solo will be in surgery for quite a bit. Maybe you want to…”

“No,” Illya answers before Waverly could even finish his sentence. “I’ll stay.”

The Englishman nods. He understands both agents have grown extremely close over the months they have been working together but the intensity of Illya’s worry at that moment, coupled with what he had seen earlier when Illya was almost hysterical when the medics tried to pry Napoleon’s body away from his hold, tells him that perhaps what he is seeing is only the tip of the iceberg. Gaby had warned him about this, and now he is beginning to realise what she had meant. 

“He’s going to be all right, Kuryakin. You’ve to believe it.”

Illya does not say a word. He wants to believe it bad enough because he cannot imagine what he would do if Napoleon does not pull through. And when he remains silent, he hears Waverly saying Napoleon will be fine, repeating those words again and again, before he leaves him sitting in that waiting room, alone. 

And as he sits there, with his eyes staring blankly at the wall in front of him, Illya does not know what to think anymore. All he could do after that is wait, hopes, and prays. 

 

***

 

Napoleon is out of surgery after four hours, and thankfully, much to Illya’s utter relief, he is stable. When the nurses finally let him see his partner, Illya dashes straight into his room but his heart sinks when he sees Napoleon has yet to regain consciousness. And Illya has to wait for a further two days before Napoleon’s eyes finally open.

“Are we still in Warsaw?”

When Illya hears that croaky voice, he is at once by Napoleon’s bedside. 

“Cowboy, you finally decide to wake up. You made me worry,” he says, tries to remain calm despite the agony he had been feeling for the past few days. The relief that floods through his body when he had heard Napoleon’s voice almost floors Illya, feels like he could barely stand. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been shot.”

“Do you need me to get the doctor?”

“No, not right now,” Napoleon says softly before closing his eyes once again and when Illya realises how much he had missed looking into those striking blue eyes, Illya wants Napoleon to know it, right there and then.

“I have missed you. Don’t ever die on me again, Cowboy. I do not think I can take it.”

When Napoleon hears that, his eyes flutter open once again, squints at Illya’s face. “What would you do if I had?”

“Honestly, I do not know what I would do,” Illya admits. 

And that is a terrible understatement indeed. Because, truth be told, he knows he would go crazy, in fact, he had almost lost his mind when he thought Napoleon was not going to make it. He visibly shudders at the thought, lets Napoleon know how it had affected him. 

“Please don’t do that again. It’s a terrible feeling.”

Napoleon feels sorry for putting Illya through the pain, and he wants nothing better than to pull him down so he could put his arms around him, to comfort him, but it hurts too much if he is to jostle around more than he should and the doctors would not be too happy if he were to ruin the stitches on his chest. 

“Can I ask you a question?” he then asks Illya whose fingers are now entwined together with his. 

“Yes, what is it?”

“Not all Russians hate me, right? Because I’d hate to think if that’s the case.”

Illya leans his arms against Napoleon’s bed railing and chuckles. “I do not think that is the case. Russians, in general, are very nice people.”

“The ones I have encountered so far are all angry and brooding, and all have tried to kill me at least once, and you say they are nice?”

Illya is straight out laughing now. “You are too dramatic sometimes, Cowboy.”

Napoleon grins, then murmurs. “Well, since you are Russian, can you prove how nice a Russian could be to me? To make me feel better?”

“Sure,” Illya answers. 

To prove his point, he slowly takes Napoleon’s face in his hands, looks at him for a second or two before kissing him lightly on his lips. He doesn’t take his mouth away after that, murmurs against his lips. “I am hoping I’m the only Russian to do this to you. And for that matter, no one else should be doing this to you, Cowboy.”

Napoleon lets out a low moan when Illya kisses him again. “No, only you, Peril. Only you.”

Those hands that normally are so dangerous, skilful with guns and violence, are slowly threading through Napoleon’s hair and although they have never said anything to each other, Napoleon knows well enough Illya has become something more than a mere partner to him. As one of those calloused thumbs brush carefully over his cheek, Napoleon thinks perhaps this is the best time for them to address their situation. 

He clears his throat, tries to get Illya’s full attention. “What is it?” Illya asks when he sees Napoleon’s questioning eyes.

“Is it normal for two men to be like this with each other? Without ever talking about it?”

Illya blinks. He knows what Napoleon is getting at. A topic that has never been broached between them, yet the way they act around one another, the slight teasing touches, the lingering stares, the kisses, are way beyond what two friends would normally do. And Illya wonders why Napoleon is bringing the matter up now after they had been going through the motions for so long.

“Why are you asking this?”

“Because my near death experience had got me thinking, that’s why.”

Illya sucks in a breath. “I do not like to hear you talking like that.”

“But it is the truth. Isn’t it, Illya? I nearly died. And it makes me think. What are we to each other?”

Looking at Napoleon lying on that hospital bed, still pale, only just woken up after a major surgery, and having him asking those questions at him, makes Illya’s heart constrict painfully in his chest. He remains silent for a moment and Napoleon could almost hear the wheels spinning in Illya’s head. After what seems like an eternity, Illya takes Napoleon’s hands in his once again.

“I never say anything, because I am afraid of what it means.”

“So what does this mean then?” Napoleon says. 

“I think you know what it means.”

The tension in the air is taut. If Napoleon wants to be petty, he would say he is rather hurt by Illya’s behaviour. The looming Russian can’t even admit to what he is feeling inside and wants Napoleon to say the words first? But when Illya continues looking at him like a sad little puppy, Napoleon relents. Perhaps that is why he loves Illya so much. In the end, the corner of his lips curve up, and he says, “Let me look up the words in Russian first, then I’ll tell you what this actually means between us.”

His anticipation had been building to a climax, his nerves wrecked waiting for words he thinks Napoleon is going to say only for him to tell him that in the end? Illya groans and could only roll his eyes in annoyance. What he really needs now is a Russian dictionary so he could shove it in front of Napoleon’s face just to hear him say it. Or, alternatively, he could simply teach Napoleon the words. His patience is growing thin.

“It’s я люблю тебя, Cowboy.”

“So that's what this is? Finally, I get to hear it from you,” Napoleon says with a wide contented smile and it quickly dawned on Illya that he had been tricked. Napoleon speaks Russian, how could he have missed that fact? His cheeks immediately reddened and seeing that, Napoleon cannot help but pull him down for another kiss before whispering the exact same words in Illya’s ear. 

я люблю тебя indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> 1)I borrowed the name Alec Krycek from the X-Files television series.  
> 2) я люблю тебя = I love you (through Google)


End file.
